


Victor

by DYLANFLOWER



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 04 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-09-19 10:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9437057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DYLANFLOWER/pseuds/DYLANFLOWER
Summary: John and Sherlock are trying their hardest in their new life as parents, and are getting closer as a result... After all, there are 3 people in 221B, and only 2 bedrooms.But when Lestrade comes to visit with some surprising information about the skeleton at the bottom of the well, Sherlock begins to wonder if Victor is really dead...





	1. Slowly, Gently...

**Author's Note:**

> Hello guys!  
> This is my first fic on AO3 so we'll see how it goes. All advice/con-crit welcome!  
> This just came to me while I was lying in bed, ill, feeling sorry for myself and waiting for my favourite fics to update.  
> Um, * means its a flashback... Because I can't work italics on this thing.  
> So anyway...  
> I hope you like it!

The snuffling noise emerging from the baby monitor woke Sherlock instantly. He lifted his head and listened carefully for any further noises; sure enough, the sound of wet sniffling and increasingly heavy breathing permeated the dark, thick atmosphere of Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, and saw John breathing slowly and calmly beside him. Best to get to Rosie before she started crying and woke John.  
Sherlock rose from the bed and padded out of his room as swiftly and silently as possible, closing the door behind him. Gone were the days where he worked until he collapsed, then slept for three days straight – he had responsibilities now. He had Rosie now.  
Taking the stairs two at a time, Sherlock swept into the slowly-awakening toddler’s room and reached straight into the wooden cot.  
Building that flat-packed monstrosity had been… an experience. It was at the point when Sherlock found himself staring at approximately thirty different sized planks of identically coloured wood, and trying to match them to the a, b, c, d, or e sized planks in the instruction manual from IKEA, that Sherlock realised that perhaps his life had changed for good.  
He had argued half-heartedly with John about burning the thing instead, but ultimately they had managed to struggle through without killing anyone. It was quite humiliating to be reduced to throwing an instruction manual out the window in frustration, and then sheepishly going all the way outside to pick it up and bring it back, when one was supposedly a genius. John had almost collapsed in his amusement, as Sherlock fought a smile tugging at his lips. The feeling of pride when they had observed the finished thing was surprisingly satisfying, though.  
“Hiya, baby girl. It’s me.” Sherlock whispered to the struggling Rosie, pressing her soft, warm head beneath his chin.  
He had spent many hours researching how to comfort babies in preparation, and with the added experience from the past two weeks of living with a toddler, Sherlock had perfected the art of soothing her. He placed one hand on her bottom (babies found that comforting... for some reason), and one between her shoulder blades, and rocked back and forth slowly. Rosie saw his thick black curls, and smelled his clean, familiar scent, and immediately quieted down.  
“What’s woken you up then, sweetheart?” Sherlock cooed. He patted her nappy inquisitively, and breathed a sigh of relief, “Don’t need changing then.”  
She turned her head so that her lips pressed against his neck, breathing heavily. Her little hand fisted in the soft collar of his pyjama top, and the other lay against his bare bicep, contracting occasionally. Sherlock had of course researched these basic reflexes, and he smiled down at her. So vulnerable still. As he looked down at her, her brow dented and her eyes screwed up.  
“Hey, hey, hey!” Sherlock quickly soothed her. He knew the signs of an impending crying fit, and he did not need one of those at 3am. She always took at least half an hour to calm down afterwards, and John would hear her over the baby monitor and wake up. He lifted her in the air above him and smiled at her. An effective distraction.  
“Hungry? Come on then.”  
Tucking her back under his chin, he made his way quietly downstairs to the kitchen. Once there, he slotted her into the high chair, but she wriggled her legs and cried out to him.   
“I can’t hold you and make milk at the same time, Rosie!” Sherlock explained. Not that Rosie could understand him. God, what had he become. He rolled his eyes at himself. Looking round in desperation, he spotted her teddy giraffe, and sighed in relief.   
“Here, you are!” He exclaimed, picking it up and ‘boop’ing her in the nose.  
She let out a high-pitched squeal of delight, kicking her feet excitedly.  
“Shh!” Sherlock shushed her, waiting for her developing hand-eye coordination to allow her to grasp the teddy. Eventually she managed to hold it tight enough not to drop it, allowing Sherlock to get back to making the milk.  
Obviously, the ideal milk for this stage of her development was breast milk, but that was no longer an option, for obvious reasons. Sherlock’s brow creased as he set about making the formula, a now well-practised recipe. He did his best but really, nothing he did would be enough to come close to replacing Mary, and it made him sad to think of Rosie when she grew old enough to question why she had two fathers and no mother.  
“Da-da-da-da!” Rosie garbled delightedly, causing Sherlock to whip round to see John stumbling through the kitchen doorway, rubbing his eyes.  
The motion caused his old army t shirt to lift above his waistband, and Sherlock distractedly tore his eyes away from the tanned skin beneath.  
“John, I’m fine. Go back to sleep.” Sherlock insisted.  
“She’s my daughter, Sherlock. It’s fine,” John replied, “Hello darlin’!” He cooed to Rosie as she stuck her arms in the air, wanting to be picked up. “Is Uncle Sherlock making you some milk, then?” He jokingly asked her, as though she would answer. He took her gurgle as confirmation. “Ah, I see.” He chuckled.  
Sherlock plucked a freshly cleaned bottle from the newly-made bottle prepping station that had taken up permanent residence by the sink. It was a carefully choreographed system of washing, reusing and restocking, much like every other aspect of their new life with a toddler to care for. A military operation.  
John appeared by his side with Rosie propped against his hip. “Here, I’ll do it, don’t worry.” He said, pressing against his side and touching his hands as he reached for the bottle. Sherlock momentarily froze, before handing the warm bottle over to John so he could feed Rosie.  
He blushed furiously, angry at himself for reacting in this way. It was John, who he’d known for years. They hadn’t yet discussed what was happening between them, but they were definitely developing.

* After Mary’s DVD finished playing, John and Sherlock looked at eachother in silence.  
“So… Do you mind if Rosie takes my room, then? I mean… She has a changing station, a huge cot, a wardrobe, and so many toys…” John asked hesitantly after a while.  
Sherlock smiled, and sat down beside John. The air was charged with words unspoken, but when John gently took his hand, and wordlessly put the One o Clock News on, the restlessness in Sherlock’s head ceased, and he relaxed against John’s side. Maybe Mary was right. They could get through this. *

No more had been said on the matter, but John had moved back in to 221B with Mary’s blessing, and there was no awkwardness when they climbed into the same bed each night. Even as their feet tangled under the covers, there was a calm acceptance that even though they didn’t have the words, they each knew what the other felt.  
“I’ll just be in bed, then.” Sherlock smiled at John.  
John nodded and walked into the lounge. The sofa had become the ‘feeding chair’, because the arm rests were just the right height for resting tired arms on as Rosie’s head lay against them.

When John’s weight settled next to Sherlock’s later that night, Sherlock shifted quietly to accommodate him.  
“Sherlock,” John whispered, “thank you.”  
“Do shut up, John.” Sherlock replied sleepily.  
“No, Sherlock. Look at me.” John said quietly.  
Sherlock turned so that he faced John, his brows creased in confusion. John placed his hands on either side of Sherlock’s face, stroking the arch of his cheekbone and observing the tired creases at the edges of his almond eyes. He bent down and pressed his lips slowly, gently, against Sherlock’s. His eyes fell closed, and he softly breathed against Sherlock’s cheek before pulling back.  
“Thank you.” John repeated.  
Sherlock blinked up at John tiredly, before his lips slowly creased into a smile. He contentedly dipped his head back down and fell back to sleep.

Come morning, the arrival of D.I. Lestrade would disturb this gentle routine somewhat.


	2. I am lost, Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg arrives with some disturbing news.

Sherlock shifted underneath the covers, turning to face John sleepily. He breathed in deeply, relishing the smell of John’s warm, tea-stained scent. He sighed contentedly.  
“Morning.” John murmured quietly.  
Sherlock opened his eyes to see John laying opposite him, watching him with a small smile. His greying hair looked golden in the morning sunlight peeping around the blackout curtains.   
“Nice to wake up of our own accord for once.” Sherlock smirked.  
“Yeah. Rosie must have tired herself out last night. Took her ages to drop back off.” John agreed.  
Sherlock closed his eyes again, content. Suddenly he remembered being in this same position in the middle of last night, with John’s lips pressed against his own. His eyes flew open again.  
He stared at John, unable to communicate his feelings. John smiled knowingly back at him, and smoothed his small, rough hand against Sherlock’s bicep which peeked above the covers.  
“So…” John coughed a bit awkwardly, “was last night… Okay?”  
Sherlock nodded, “It was… Good.” He mumbled stiffly.  
“Yeah?” John replied hopefully.  
“Very good.” Sherlock grinned, confident that John felt the same, “So… If I wanted to repeat… Last night…?” Sherlock left the question hanging, and he could feel the blush in his cheeks. He shut his eyes in embarrassment, and felt the blush getting worse.  
John’s lips pressed quickly, and somewhat chastely, to his cheekbone, where it was hot with the adrenaline of the blush. Sherlock’s eyes flew open. They were acting like young teenagers, for God’s sake.  
“Sherlock… Have you… Ever…. Y’know -”  
“- No.” Sherlock butted in.   
“Never? Not even… With Janine?”  
“No.”  
John nodded slowly, seriously. “That’s okay, Sherlock.” He said quietly, looking into Sherlock’s multi-coloured eyes.  
Sherlock ducked his head, embarrassed. “Yes, John, I know it’s fine.” He said stiffly.  
John suddenly started giggling, that same giggle that had emerged in the delighted adrenaline following their first chase round London, leaning against the wall at the bottom of the stairs to Baker Street.  
“What?” Sherlock asked sharply, offended.  
“It’s just. We’ve not got any better at this since that first meal at Angelo’s. We were so awkward then and we’re just the same now. Despite everything that’s happened, all these years. We’re still just two fully-English idiots.” John said disbelievingly.  
“Now, John. You’re the only idiot here.” Sherlock smirked.  
“Oi!” John slapped his arm jokingly. They both laughed, shoulders shaking under the covers. Unknowingly, they both moved so that they feet touched, and the laughter slowly faded. The atmosphere grew serious, as though whatever was about to happen next mattered. Truly mattered.  
“John…” Sherlock said hesitantly, “Kiss me? Please?” He added nervously.  
John smiled, and moved his hands up to hold his face firmly between his hands. “Yes.” He breathed.  
Their lips met slowly, as though they’d never done this before. And they hadn’t, really. Not properly.   
The pressure of John’s smooth lips increased and he breathed deeply. Their noses touched. Slowly, John pulled Sherlock’s bottom lip between his own, and something in Sherlock snapped. He inhaled sharply, and heat overtook his body. He gripped the nape of John’s neck, wrapped his arm around his waist, and when John’s tongue licked questioningly at the inside of Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock crushed himself closer, opening his mouth so that John could lick inside. Their tongues twined together like their limbs did under the covers. John’s tongue pushed Sherlock’s down like a fight for dominance, and it was surprisingly sexy. It was hot, it was wet, and Sherlock had never loved John Watson more intensely than in this moment.  
The baby monitor crackled as Rosie’s sharp cry flooded the room. John sighed regretfully against Sherlock’s mouth, slowly pulling away. His lips were red and swollen, his hair riotous where Sherlock’s hands had dishevelled it. Sherlock could only imagine what he looked like.  
“To be continued.” John said affirmatively, fondly running his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, before stretching and rolling out of bed.  
“I’m coming, baby!” He called to Rosie.  
Sherlock rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling above him. He breathed deeply, trying to slow his pounding heart. It had never felt like that with Janine. Nothing like that. Those cringe-worthy romantic notions of deep love and fireworks always used to make Sherlock scoff and turn his back, so it was with some internal conflict that he realised those metaphors were accurate. It did feel like that with John.  
Sherlock wondered whether John and Mary used to feel like that, when they… Did things together. Sherlock closed his eyes tightly against the thought. All those years of longing from a distance, dreaming of this happening. But the reality was horrible, cruel because Mary was dead, and that should never have happened. Dead because of him.  
When Sherlock felt tears sting his eyes, he grunted in distaste. What had he become, crying and kissing and just generally being a slave to his emotions? Mycroft would be disgusted. Sherlock was, in a small, quiet part of his consciousness, disgusted with himself, too. Sentiment is a defect found on the losing side.  
John’s footsteps came down the stairs heavily, obviously carrying Rosie with him. His murmuring became more distinct as he reached the foot of the stairs.  
“Let’s go and see Sherlock, eh?” He asked Rosie soothingly.  
“Hello, Uncle Sherlock.” He greeted on Rosie’s behalf, waggling her hand in his direction in a poor imitation of a wave. But Rosie giggled at the pantomime, so Sherlock crooked his fingers at her and smiled, always pandering to her.  
“Good morning, Rosie!” He cooed.  
John swung her round in an arc before plonking her in the covers next to Sherlock.  
She dragged herself closer to Sherlock so she could nestle against his chest. Sherlock automatically wrapped his arms around her small, warm body.  
Just as John was crawling into bed next to them, the doorbell rang downstairs.  
“Mrs Hudson’s not expecting visitors, is she?” John asked.  
“No, she hasn’t said anything to me,” He peered over his shoulder at the clock on his bedside table, “It’s only 9-o-clock anyway.”  
“Maybe a case?” John suggested, slipping his feet into his slippers.  
Sherlock hummed in agreement, shifting Rosie so she leaned against the pillow so he could get up, too. John had already started padding down the stairs to get the door.  
Just as Sherlock was hurriedly smoothing down his hair in the mirror, Lestrade’s gruff voice could be heard climbing the stairs.  
Interesting. Must be serious if he didn’t just text Sherlock.  
He grabbed his dressing gown from behind the door, slipping it on and tying it firmly around his waist. He felt exposed after this morning’s events with John, as though Lestrade would psychically be able to tell. While Sherlock himself could always deduce these things, he doubted Lestrade had the mental capabilities to do so.  
Swinging Rosie up to rest against his hip, Sherlock went to meet John in the living room.  
“Ah, Greg, what can we do for you?” He greeted him, using his first name proudly. It always made Lestrade happy that he remembered it now.  
“Hi Sherlock, hello little Rosie.” He greeted them, tucking Rosie under the chin with his finger.  
John held his hands out for Rosie, so Sherlock transferred her over to him. With hands now free, Sherlock motioned for Lestrade to sit in John’s chair opposite his own, which he sat in.   
“So?” Sherlock prompted.  
“It’s um… It’s about the skeleton we found at the bottom of the well at Musgrave.”  
“Yes?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. What could possibly be of interest about poor Victor’s bones?  
“They’re… the analysis found them to be about 125 years old. As in, the little boy died 125 years ago.”  
There was a beat of silence.  
“How? How can they be 125 years old? They’re… They’re Victor’s. Euros told me.”  
“They can’t be. The analysis is very accurate. We asked a professional archaeologist to take a look, and all the signs are there. They are not the bones of a boy who died 30 years ago.”

“I am lost. Help me, brother. Save my life before my doom. I am lost without your love. Save my soul. Seek my room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh, plot twist! Also, in case anyone isn't aware, the quote at the bottom is the de-coded clue for Sherlock when he was trying to find Redbeard.  
> I hope to update some time next week :) Let me know what you think!


	3. A Jigsaw Puzzle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The game is on...

“So, if the bones belong to an as-yet-unidentified Victorian child, then where are Victor’s bones?” Sherlock asked, looking up to John in mutual confusion.  
John sat on the sofa and leaned forward with Rosie on his lap, his open-book face displaying the whirring mind within as he searched for an explanation.  
“We’re not… Sure.” Lestrade replied, eyebrows creased.  
“Has anybody spoken to Euros yet?” Sherlock asked, planning his next steps already. He brought his fingertips together to rest against his chin, leaned back in his chair, thinking.  
“Not yet. I came straight here.”  
Sherlock hummed in affirmative. “John, get Mycroft on the phone. Lestrade, is there any way that archaeologist can identify the body? It could be another clue, somehow, or… I don’t know.” Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like not knowing. Surely a Victorian skeleton, rather than Victor’s skeleton… Wasn’t somehow a clue?  
“He’s working on it but… Records were sketchy back then. It’s a case of looking for missing persons reports from around 1890, looking at previous tenants of Musgrave. Police reports. Y’know…”  
Sherlock hummed again. John suddenly thrust his phone in Sherlock’s face, and he grabbed it and put it on speaker.  
“Mycroft, Lestrade has just arrived with some puzzling news.” Sherlock began as soon as he answered.   
“Oh?”  
“The skeleton found at the bottom of the well at Musgrave is 125 years old. So not Victor’s skeleton.”  
A beat of silence.  
“Intriguing. Does that mean Euros discovered the skeleton one day and plotted this whole story to fit it? Or did she find an old skeleton and then throw it down the well? But then where is Victor? Why did he disappear?”  
“He must still be dead, it’s just not his body.” Sherlock proclaimed, “Lestrade, please ask your team to identify how long the skeleton has been in the water.”  
“Why do you say that? He could well be alive.” Mycroft butted in.  
“Are you seriously suggesting he… what? Ran away, changed his name, somehow managed to hide from the police for all those years, from his parents?” Sherlock demanded.  
Mycroft exhaled loudly.  
“In fairness, Sherlock, you did do that yourself. And believe me when I say it was very convincing.” John said tightly, back on the sofa with Rosie bouncing in his lap.  
Sherlock shook his head sharply, “It was hard enough to manage that with Molly and Mycroft helping me, a child on his own could not have done that.”  
“But a child with Euros to aid him…?” Mycroft left the question hanging.  
Sherlock grunted in frustrated acknowledgement. They all thought for a few minutes, the room silent apart from Rosie’s gurgles.  
Eventually Sherlock stood, and Lestrade and John followed suit.  
“Lestrade, you head back to the yard, try and speak to the archaeologist and find anything you can about who the skeleton may belong to, why he died, why he was never found. Is the skeleton at Bart’s?”  
Lestrade nodded sharply, gathering his things and already on his phone.  
“Right. John and I will go to Bart’s. Um…” Sherlock looked at Rosie, thinking. “Is Mrs Hudson in?”  
“Should be.” John nodded, and turned to go downstairs. At least Mrs Hudson wouldn’t see it as a burden – she loved Rosie to pieces. As did we all.

A taxi ride later, they were at Barts, looking down at the small bones.  
“No signs of a fracture anywhere, no signs of a struggle. Nothing. I wish I could observe the flesh.” Sherlock said, irritated, and a bit creepy. “Do you see anything John?”  
John leaned forward, fidgeting with his face mask to make sure it was fully over his face, and trying to separate himself from the situation as the individual bones of an 8 year old boy, or girl, really, lay slotted next to eachother like a jigsaw puzzle.  
“Before puberty it’s very difficult to distinguish a male from a female skeleton, but the shoulders are slightly broader than would be expected for a girl… The jaw bone is quite defined. Um… Maybe Molly could help?”  
“Yes, yes, I’ll get to that. But can you see anything medically wrong with this skeleton? How did the child die? Was there a struggle? Was he ill?”  
“Look, Sherlock, I was trained to treat living people, not hundred-year-old skeletons.” John huffed. When Sherlock continued to wait expectantly, John continued anyway, “the bones are a funny colour but that could be because he was in the well for so long. She? I don’t know. Nothing seems unusual. Very short and bit bow-legged, perhaps… But then it’s a Victorian child.”  
“Hm. Perhaps from a poor family then? Any signs of hard graft, did the child work?” As he suggested it, Sherlock poked at the finger bones with gloved hands, trying not to touch too much while looking for wear and tear.  
“There wouldn’t be much to see on the skeleton at this age, arthritis is obviously a long way off, there aren’t any deformities to suggest the child worked in a mine or anything. Could’ve been a chimney sweep though… The main symptoms there are in the lungs, but…” John trailed off.  
“Oh this is pointless. What good is identifying the possible job this child performed 125 years ago? MOLLY!” Sherlock shouted through the door.  
John scrubbed his hands over his face. Sherlock was already more irritable than he had been even since Rosie was born. He seemed to have endless patience for her, no matter how loud she cried or for how long. But this case, this is what was crumbling that hard-earned self-control.  
“Sherlock… Are you okay? What if Victor isn’t actually dead?” John asked tentatively, concerned but trying not to make the situation worse.  
Sherlock shook his head as if to dispel a fly buzzing round his head “I won’t think about ‘what if’s yet. Focus on the facts.” He said monotonously.  
John sighed as Molly hurried into the room, and began to have a look herself.

//Text to: Brother Mine –   
Molly believes the skeleton (believed to be male) has been in the well since the child died, as there are signs of slow decay of the flesh, and the colouring also suggests it has been kept in a non-fresh water source for some time.\\\  
Sherlock drummed his fingers on his knees as he waited for Mycroft to reply.  
“So… Do you think the boy, drowned then?”  
“Seems the most logical explanation, yes.” Sherlock confirmed.  
“So Euros somehow happened to find a 125 year old skeleton at the bottom of a well near your house, and pretended all these years that she had drowned Victor in it, giving you clues to find it?” John said doubtfully.  
“Seems that way, however improbable. But that means Victor’s body must still be somewhere. And that she knew we would discover that the skeleton in that well is not Victor’s.”  
//Text from: Brother Mine –   
Euros has agreed to talk.\\\


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Victor actually dead?

“Well, I was just examining the build up of algae and other age-related decay in the well– ever so interesting, right, Sherlock? – When I noticed a little rib sticking out. It took me a few days, because of course I was only 6,” Euros continued, as if to remind us of just how disturbing this whole scenario was, “But eventually I managed to climb down into the well with a rope and examine the skeleton myself. I was ever so excited. Sherlock will be so jealous that I found the treasure and not him or Victor! I thought.”  
Sherlock looked down, seemingly fighting an impulse to say something.  
“I spent a whole week researching in the library about the skeleton, hacking into ancestral records and archaeology textbooks. I told Mummy it was that school project we had to do on ants, do you remember, Sherlock?” Euros smiled sweetly as him from where she sat chained to the chair.  
They were in a small room on Sherrinford island, as it was too dangerous to let Euros out again. A table separated Euros from Sherlock, Mycroft and John. All were silent, staring, both fascinated and disgusted by the malevolent actions of a supposedly-innocent 6 year old.  
“So anyway I found out how long it had been there. I still think it was most likely a boy but I mean I wasn’t so desperate to find out. It’s dead now, what does it matter?” Euros asked innocently.  
“So you didn’t bother to identify who the skeleton belonged to?”  
“No, why should I? It hardly matters.” Euros repeated.  
“Right.” Mycroft replied, “So at what point did you decide to pretend the skeleton was Victor’s body? Why didn’t you just tell Mummy or Daddy and forget about it?”  
“Where’s the fun in that?” Euros questioned, smiling, “Such a wonderful discovery shouldn’t be wasted.”  
Sherlock grunted in distasteful amusement. Him and Euros were so alike. Except he would’ve removed the skeleton and experimented on it rather than turning it into a game. John frowned at him.  
“I needed to get rid of Victor anyway, you see, because he was taking all Sherlock’s attention from me and that was not fair, he was getting in my way.” Euros said stubbornly, as though she was still 6 years old and was complaining to Mummy. The contrast to reality, where she was chained on a secret island because she was a true psychopath, was chilling.  
“So… You killed Victor? Where did you hide his body?” Sherlock asked.  
“I’m not saying anything else, Sherlock, where’s the fun in that?!” Euros said in a high-pitched sing-songy voice.  
“This is not a game, Euros. The game is over. You tricked us, well done, we thought the body was Victor’s. Now where is Victor’s body really?” Sherlock hissed angrily.  
“Who said Victor was dead?” Euros questioned sweetly.  
“You did!” Sherlock shouted, smashing the table with his fist. John put his hand on Sherlock’s back to calm him down and Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose.  
“Euros, we have methods. We will get the truth out of you. Just help us. Please.” Mycroft said in a low voice.  
“I never said Victor was dead, did I?” Euros asked, looking around as if for audio-visual evidence to arrive.  
“Yes, you-.” Sherlock stopped dead.  
“Oh it’s all coming together now! You see? I never confirmed nor denied your conclusion that I killed your friend. So what does that mean…?” Euros trailed off meaningfully, touching her lower lip with her finger in a traditional ‘thinking’ pose.  
“Where is he?!” Sherlock shouted, standing and pounding his fists on the table once more.  
Euros leaned back and giggled, looking to John and Mycroft as if to encourage them to laugh at Sherlock’s spectacle.  
“What did you do to him?” Sherlock demanded lowly, coldly.  
“Well, I suppose I can tell you now. Now that you eventually sort of figured it out for yourself. With a little help.”  
“Tell me what?” Sherlock spoke slowly.  
“Redbeard, your dear little pet friend, Victor Trevor… He isn’t dead.” Euros grinned.  
\--------------  
Lestrade stormed down the hallway of New Scotland Yard with his phone clenched in his hand as it held it to his ear.  
“That’s all you’ve got?” Greg confirmed.  
“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice crackled down the line from Sherrinford.  
“Right. Okay. So we’ll create Missing Persons posters for a 42 year old male, blonde hair, English-speaking, no known history before the age of 8,” Lestrade sighed, “We’re not gonna get very far with that. He could be anywhere.”  
“Yes. I know.” Sherlock said tensely, “Just do it. Then send it to all the border control authorities in Europe and all the police stations that will listen.”  
“Sherlock-”  
“You will have Mycroft’s clearance to do so.” Sherlock confirmed.  
Lestrade sighed. “Right. I’m on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you actually watch TFP, Euros never confirmed that Victor is dead. So. Yeah. *spooky music*


End file.
